


From Hell

by LadyBraken



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Civil War, Fluff, Inferi, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Necromancy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBraken/pseuds/LadyBraken
Summary: Tom never managed to make a horcrux, and was killed at age 20. Over 50 years later,  the Dark Lord Grindelwald resurrects Tom in an attempt to make a super-powered inferi, but it turns out Tom's will is too strong, and he escapes Grindelwald. However, the resurrection will only be permanent if he can regain his original soul. Feeding on the souls of the recently dead can keep Tom alive while he searches for his reincarnation Harry Potter, who has his original soul.





	1. Alive

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of my participation to Mariiechan marvellous prompt, which was posted on the TomHarry Dicord! 
> 
> I already have a few chapters written, but I cannot garantie regular udates. I really love this story! It should be between ten and twenty chapters. I will write the warnings for each chapter in the beggining note, so everyone should be ok with the content. 
> 
> Thanks to the numerous beta that are working on this text!
> 
> Warning: necromancy (description of death and decay)

**I-**

 

Grindelwald stood at the top of the tombstone, his wild blond hair flying around his head. It was cold, far too cold for a summer night; but magic had its ways. Frowning, he draped his dark cape around him to shield of the vicious wind. 

 

There was no one in the cemetery. No one in the sea of stones, grey ground and hurling wind. 

 

It was like he could already hear the deads. 

 

People would say that one shouldn’t let himself believe in such stories; old women’s tales to scare the children. But Grindelwald wasn’t  _ anyone _ . He knew; he knew so much more than the present,  than the sensible. 

 

He walked silently among the stones, so as not to wake up the dead before it was time. Slowly, almost fearfully, he caressed the Dark Stone that  had been on his finger for fifty years. His gift; his burden. In any case, it was what he needed. 

 

Power. 

 

He was standing in front of one of the tombs. It was old, decrepit. No one had come here in years - no one had come here at all. Such a shame. The vine was rising up along the stone, crawling in the interstices, feeding on the corpses that lodged in its roots, destroying, in addition to their bodies, the last trace of the memory that they had once been there.

 

Faded by the years, almost illegible, a name had been engraved.

 

**_Tom Riddle._ **

 

Clearly, it had been made by someone who didn’t know - or didn’t care- that the boy had had a middle name. The only link to his magical ancestry; the only thing he had always been proud of. 

 

But Grindelwald had never been a man to indulge in sentimentality. 

With a swift move of his wand, the plain stone cracked in the middle, and with another, the two parts went flying around, breaking the other tombs in their path. Grindelwald didn’t care. Muggles didn’t deserve to be buried. 

 

The air was thick. He could feel the eyes of the dead on his neck and they were angry. But what had to be done, had to be done. For the Greater Good. 

 

Once the last pieces of stone were removed, he looked disdainfully at the plank of wood that had been used for the dead man's final home. They had dared to bury this powerful wizard like a muggle.

 

Grindelwald smirked - that was all of his dear Albus’s hateful irony. 

 

Another wave of his wand, and the wood was gone. 

 

The air caught in his throat. 

 

Lying a meter under his feet, Tom Riddle was peaceful. His features were relaxed - more than they had ever been during his lifetime, and his face lacked that mocking and haughty smile that had made all his charm. No, here, his hand crossed on his heart, his hair slightly longer than when he had been buried, his face gaunt, pale, the skin sticking on the bone of his skull as his flesh decayed, Tom Riddle was a child. A boy murdered at the edge of adulthood. 

 

Riddle had never been a boy, of course. He had never truly been innocent. Beautiful, terrible, sadistic, geniously deviant, yes. 

 

Either way, Grindelwald wasn’t sure if he was glad that wizards decayed slower that their muggle counterpart. It surely would be good for his plans. 

 

Raising the Wand, Grindelwald started chanting. The words echoed, unholy in this sacred place like oil in clear water as he claimed his right to impose his will on the dead. The spell clacked in the air as the syllabus were gluing themselves in the young man’s corpse, entering his flesh, reaching for the small glimmer of a long-gone soul that always rested within one’s body. 

 

Grindelwald felt it. A little light, a small thing that held in itself all the free-will, all of what made a person’s mind, their temper. So fragile, so perfect. 

 

He pointed his wand at it and  _ pulled _ . 

 

\----

 

Pain. 

 

It had been a long time since Tom had felt pain. It had been a long time since Tom had felt anything. He didn’t know if he  liked it; he wasn’t conscious enough to tell. 

 

But now he felt it. It was running along something, in far away places that sent signals to his mind. 

 

Tom wanted to scream, but he didn’t know what a voice was, to do it. 

 

Something pierced the darkness: color. He wasn’t sure what  _ color  _ was, but his mind seemed to remember it as such. Big dots caressing his senses, overwhelming something that was slowly starting to find it’s old shape, being regenerated by this raw, pushing power that was surrounding him. 

 

Magic. 

 

He felt his skin start to come to life as magic ran through it like  waves of golden droplets burning his very being and his body rose from the ground. Something - something that wasn’t him- was telling him to stand. Was orderning his legs, the muscles in his legs, like a _ puppet _ . 

 

Of course, Tom didn’t remembered what a puppet was. But a heavy thing was constricting his throat when the image came to his mind - anger, supplied his rapidly reforming brain- telling him that it was bad, that it had to stop. 

 

The magic grew thicker, and Tom felt one of his leg move forward. He almost saw it, a  light shape against a dark font. 

 

Then he felt it - the other mind. 

 

And the memories came back. The flame - red hair - moving around, the blue of the clothes - robes. The sky blue eyes, twinkle-less, like they had always been since he was sorted. The hands, long, old, moving around, and the wand. The wand was shouting curses, dark, and light, and colors that Tom only remembered were flying around him. He was ducking, he was running and shouting back, his legs ready, obeying to his will alone, his posture perfect, his spellwork unbested. 

 

He was winning - of course he was. Nobody could stop him. He was the best wizard of his time. He was Lord Voldemort, and death wasn’t for him. 

 

“It’s over, Tom!” said Dumbledore in a calm, but slightly panting voice, “You shall never do wrong again!”

 

Tom- no, Voldemort, smirked at the taunt. Such a good feeling, such grandiloquence! Really, he wouldn’t be surprised if the man had had views on the Dark Lord’s place. And now Tom was laughing because really, it was all too easy. 

 

The magic was buzzing around him. It was thrilling. He loved it, even more than the power he felt at the tip of his fingers. 

 

He saw something in Dumbledore’s eyes, and then-

 

A sharp pain cut though his chest. He almost cried, but he couldn’t breathe as the cut was expanding at each breath against the blade still stuck under his ribs. His wand fell on the ground as his arms started to go limp. He turned around to see his murderer, and as the world wet black, the hateful, burning eyes of his uncle followed him. 

 

If he was still alive, Tom would have laughed. 

 

A rush of now familiar energy took him out of his newfound memory. Someone was in front of him - the one that had woken him, he realised. For he had been  _ dead _ . The simple thought, the horrendous proof of his mortality was almost making his brain shut down. 

 

_ Move.  _

 

The order took him by surprise. His legs moves forward clusily, decayed muscle not yet totally reformed. Not enough to do what was asked, and a shot of pain from the barely-created nerves would have make him tear up if he could cry. It wasn’t a pain an human being should feel - it wasn’t a pain an human being  _ could _ feel. 

 

The man was standing in front of him, and when his sight completely came back, anger came with it. The man was looking at him with hunger. Like he was a thing, a weapon. Like he was  _ weak _ . 

 

Tom Marvolo Riddle was many things, but he was not weak. Not in life, not in death, not after. 

 

The man had long, curly hair. Blond- whitened with age. His features were strong, his jaw sharp, and his eyes colder than the blade. He was tall, but years had taken their toll on his once-proud posture.

 

_ Move. _

 

Tom had to move - it was his order. The only reason he was alive - almost was this order. But Tom wasn’t a thing, and even if all his body screamed for him to move...

 

He did not. 

 

For about five seconds. Then, his mind became blank for a moment - enough for his body to do as it was told. He felt his still lacerated, still swarming dead flesh move without him. 

 

The man - he recognised him now, from the newspapers. The other Dark Lord - Gellert Grindelwald. The one that had  sent bombs at Tom’s head when he was a child. The one that had doomed him to starvation when he was a teenager. 

 

Hate.

 

Hate so strong it made his all being tremble ran through his veins. Something, something old. He recognised it, something from before. Something that had made him alive once, something that had made him _ special _ . 

 

“You really are…” Grindelwald whispered, “a good specimen.”

 

Tom wanted to curse him, but his face remained black - dead. He hated how the man’s eyes were roaming his body, and he hated how he couldn’t do anything about it. 

 

“We will have to find you food, my dear. But you will do…prowesses, under my command. Of course, it will not be hard to find dying people in these days…”

 

Grindelwald was very clearly talking to himself, and every words added a layer of dread in Tom’s mind.

 

_ What was he? _

 

“Maybe, we will even find your reincarnation and anchor you here for a while…”

 

Tom couldn’t move. He couldn’t defend himself, but it was nothing new. He still had, however, his strongest weapon. 

 

His mind. 

 

\----

 

Grindelwald took him to the little village down the hill. The one Tom  had sworn to himself he would never return to. He had no choice in the matter, and his poorly working legs led him into the hell-place on their own, dutifully following their master. 

 

Everything had changed. From the now compact cars in the streets to the flawless concrete on the floor, the strange moving images on the square objects - was the town magical, now? - to the way people dressed. 

 

Grindelwald had drapped him in his long coat to hide his nudity, but apparently nothing could be done about his face right now. Tom had no idea what the man meant - he had no idea what he looked like, before of after death, but he hoped the problem could be solved in one way or another. The problem with marked faces was that they were highly recognisable. 

 

He had once wanted to be recognised, he knew. But in the current situation, it would bring nothing but trouble. 

 

Grindelwald  led him into a dark alley with orders not to move. Of course, as soon as the man was out of view, Tom tried to do just that. He concentrated on his right hand. It was supposed to be fluid, used to hold his wand…

 

It was now just a mass of  useless flesh and broken bones. He was lucky that in this time nobody felt  entitled to point out the strangeness of others in the streets. For just how long had he been dead? Could he reach his old guard? Were the knights still alive?

 

Tom put all of these, admittedly important, questions at the back of his mind, to concentrate on his right hand. He was already pretty sure that Grindelwald hadn’t intended for Tom to be this sentient. He still didn’t know it,  if the way the man was talking to himself was any indication. Which meant that Tom had the element of surprise - a rare advantage when confronting a seer. 

 

One of his finger twitched. Nothing much, but just enough to signal that he  _ could _ . Tom concentrated even more. He felt it again, the rush of something inside, and a second finger moved in cadence with the first. 

 

Then he recognized the force he was using. His magic, his magic was still there,  bound along with his control, by the spell, deep down. His magical core, depleted so many years ago, was slowly starting to refill with the sparkle of life that was animating Tom. 

 

It was cascading inside his newfound veins, absorbing the particles of magic there was in everything around him, trying to fill many years of void, trying to make the world bend to the reality of his existence. His heart started beating harder, sending blood magically liquefying into his limbs, reviving organs he did not even know had. It was amazing, it was the delicious taste of his own saliva in his mouth, the divine feeling of his lungs filling with air of themselves, and for him, only for him. It was a Lacrimosa played as a major key, the memory of a life he was stroking again like behind a screen, but what he needed. He was hungry, more than anything else, hungry for life.

 

He was. He was someone. This will, this terrible will that had made the world tremble in anticipation so many years before. Now, and only now, Tom Riddle was alive. 

 

Now, and only now, Lord Voldemort had risen again. 

 

He stopped moving when Grindelwald came back holding something… someone in his arms. Tom could barely see the few brown locks that protruded from the mass wrapped in a dark cloth. As he approached, Tom was able to see a woman, choking in her own blood. Her throat had been cut messily enough to to grant her an immediate death. He eyes were filled with pain and agony, slowly becoming dazed and lost. 

 

It wasn’t a terrible sight, for Tom. He had seen- and done- much worse things since he was merely a child. Grindelwald, however, seemed mildly disgusted by the task. 

 

_ Eat _ . His magic ordered quickly. 

 

Tom complied, not consciously knowing what he was supposed to do. he simply let his body guide him, as Grindelwald’s magic surely knew what was all of this about. He loomed over the dying woman, opened his mouth, and took a deep breath. 

 

A too deep breath. 

 

At first, it was air that entered his lungs - delicious, pure, so new and yet known. But he continued to  inhale, and something else came. A warm feeling spread through him, smelling of spring, roses, old books. But, then, the sensation grew, and grew, and it was too much, and it became tainted with fear, pain and death. A small  light floated out of the woman’s mouth. 

 

Tom swallowed it greedily. He felt full, more like himself, but somehow still empty, stil… ephemeral. As if his body was going to fall apart in a only a few minutes, as it it had been prepared with ropes and tape. As if he still shouldn’t  be here. 

 

_ Now.  _

 

With a wave of willpower, Tom pushed his magic at his fingertips. Rising his head, he saw Grindelwald’s eyes widened, but as the man went for his wand, everything exploded,  throwing him violently against the alley wall, and Tom disappeared. 


	2. Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hy! First of all, I wanted to say thank you for all the kinds comments and the number of kudos on this fic! I really didn't expect such a reaction. Love you guys!
> 
> Thank you to all my betas for this chapter;
> 
> Warning: murder

**II-**

 

Tom landed on a deserted road. 

 

He was surrounded by countryside. Stretches of green grass and fallow fields on each side of the small road he stood on stretched as far as the eye could see.  He slowly stood up, with as much dignity as possible. He stumbled a bit, but his legs slowly managed to move him forwards. 

 

He took a deep breath and walked along the road. The sun was heavy on his shoulders, and he was sure that if he had  really been alive, he would have broken a sweat. He didn’t quite know where he was going, but his instincts were telling him that it was the right direction. He had always listened to his instincts. 

 

The heat lowered as the night  began to fall. The shadows surrounded him and the sky turned red and gold, but he continued to walk. He knew there was something really important at the end of the road—wherever he was going. 

 

Something he needed. 

 

He continued walking on and on, being brushed off by the occasional car. It made him jump the first two or three times—when did cars become so silent? What was the purpose of that except actually  _ killing people _ ? Stupid muggles. 

 

The chill of the night made him shiver. He didn’t like it.  He didn’t like the dark either. It reminded him of before. Of what he had escaped. 

 

He was going to stay alive; and he was going to stay alive  _ forever _ . There was no going back. He should have found a way when he was younger. He had the means, the knowledge, but he had let himself be distracted from what really mattered.

 

Power was nothing if you didn’t live to use it. 

 

The summer sun started to rise again, bathing the land in gold and soft pink,  its rays softly caressing Tom’s cheek. He stood a long moment, observing the life awakening around him. He wondered if  animals went to the same place humans did, when they died…

 

He didn’t want to think about that. It was in the past—he would never go back. 

 

He started to walk again. 

 

The burning concrete warmed the soles of his feet irritated by walking barefoot. He passed fields and small houses, surrounded by sparse fences and large gardens in which children played while their parents rested in the shadows, big hats protecting their eyes from the sun.

 

Tom decided to stop—he had been walking for hours, and his feet were raw, and he  was panting. He felt tired, but not a normal exhaustion. It was like his bones themselves were tired of  _ being _ . 

  
  


Tom watched them, his head tilted to the side. It was strange. He did not understand their behavior—did he understand when he was still alive? Why did these children run aimlessly? Why did they laugh? Why did the woman stick her mouth to that of the man without trying to relieve her needs of the flesh? Why was her hand resting on her husband's arm for no other purpose than to touch?

 

Tom felt empty. He felt something missing, and it made him angry. 

 

It made him hungry. 

 

He limped towards the house, fighting to keep his expression innocent. 

 

The woman was the first to notice him. She rose her head, and seeing the young man limping, she rose for her place. 

 

“Can I help you?” she asked warily. 

 

Tom tried to move his tongue and lips, but it was still too hard. He wasn’t even sure he still had flesh on his lips to make the sounds. The only result was a weak pained moan—in another life, he would have killed anyone  who dared to hear that sound, for he wasn’t weak. Not for anything or anyone. But right now, it served his purpose. 

 

“Are you hurt?” asked the woman. She made a sign for her children to go inside the house. 

 

Tom emitted another moan, eyes downcast, still limping forward. Only two meters.  The man turned back to assure himself that the kids were in the home—prefect. Tom made a bigger step and reached for the woman’s throat. It take only one second to pull her towards him and to bite the tender flesh of her neck. 

 

He would have liked to do this more properly, but  in desperate times come desperate measures. He heard the man scream, even though it was pointless. Why would one scream for the death of another? One’s own death is terrifying enough, thank you very much. 

 

He used his magic, raw and untamed, like he used to when he was a mere child, forced to violence for a mouthful of bread. Except that, now, he is very, very aware of what will happen if he doesn’t have access to said bread. 

 

The man fell  to his knees, paralyzed. 

 

Tom  looked the man in the eyes while he ripped out the woman’s throat. He had never indulged in the bloody ways to achieve his  goals, preferring the subtlety of poison, politics, or well-placed curses. But to do it so violently, to take without thinking…  and to watch the despair on their faces…

 

Now,  _ that _ was thrilling. 

 

Not the fact that he was killing  them, of course. He didn’t particularly like killing. No, it was the power he felt—finally, his power…

 

He would not do that often, he decided absentmindedly.  He went closer to the man as the woman’s body fell on the ground. 

 

It took him a few hours to hide the bodies and wash away the blood—he  used his victims’ bathroom. He let the water run over his body; satisfied, and finally full. Not quite full, but as far as he could  get. He savoured the fresh sensation of water running down his naked skin, washing away not only the fresh blood, but also the dirt, dead flesh, and the still-lingering worms. 

 

He felt cleaner than he had ever before. His skin wasn’t yet pristine like it used to be, of course. There were wounds, scratches, and bruises. Some parts of his body still hadn’t recovered, but it was getting better. He inspected each  accessible centimeter of skin. He hated the traces, but he knew how to erase them now. 

 

He let his head hit the white tiles. Murder had never been a problem, but when he ate them—because even if he didn’t eat their bodies, he still ate them—when he did that, he felt their emotions. Not the ones they were feeling on the  moment. That, he could deal with. He was a powerful legilimens, and his curiosity had pushed him more than once to put himself into his victim's mind to study the exact development of their thought and sensation through whatever he was doing to them. Sometimes, he didn’t even notice he was doing it—the trouble of having the gift since childhood. 

 

But no, these were old feelings. Feeling of joy, of purity, of sadness, of everything that made someone someone. 

 

He didn’t know why it mattered, so he decided that it didn’t. 

 

He got out of the shower and observed his face in the mirror for the first time since he had died. 

 

It was gaunt.  Much, much more than it had ever been during his life. His skin had always been pale and delicate, but now he could  see the purple lines of his veins pulsing under it. His dark hair sticked to his skull and shoulders. It was far too long for his taste,  causing a few drops of cooling water to slide along his collarbone, and then down his torso. He noticed that he had regained his pre-death shape; the one of a scholar who, even if not athletic, knew that a good mind had to pair up with a healthy body. His lips were still slightly paler than they used to be, but he thought it would only take time for them to regain their natural shape and softness. His eyes however…

 

His eyes, dark, bottomless eyes had always burned with... something. Magic, knowledge, anger, darkness;  on rare occasion even mirth. Now, they just looked empty. Like there was nothing behind them. Like he was incomplete.

 

But yes, of course he was. 

 

He had yet to find his soul.  He would never be alive until he found it. 

 

And he would find it; by any means necessary. 

 

\---

 

Harry was kneeling in the mud,  turning the earth and adding a little fertilizer. The task wasn’t fastidious, and it helped him to get out of the house; at least for a few hours. Even risking insolation and the dirty and aching hands he always ended up with, it was still better than the smell of the cleaning products and the feeling of Petunia’s gaze on his neck. 

 

The cool breeze caressed his skin, warmed by the midday sun. His hair floated slowly, caressing the nap of his neck, and he shivered. 

 

Yes, it was really a good day to be outside. 

 

He felt great, for once, because his grades were improving, and his Aunt and Uncle were more and more lenient  about his general whereabouts—they had simply stopped caring at all, in his opinion. It wasn’t like he was noticeable; overall, in the muggle world, he was quite a bland boy. He didn’t have good marks here—he didn’t have his exceptional, wild magical core to help him. He was just an averagely smart boy, smaller than many and definitely nothing much to look at or  think about. But here, with the wind in his hair, the sun on his skin, the smell of the flowers around him—yes, he felt good. It would have been perfect if someone hadn’t been watching him—

 

His head shot up. No, there was no one in the long street of Private Drive, not a soul between the perfectly painted and identical fences. 

 

Probably an effect of the sun. 

 

Slightly worried about eventual paranoia—he was, after all, half-starved and quite exhausted by the heat—he rose up on his feet. He looked around himself one last time before heading inside the coolness of the house, looking for a much needed glass of water. 

 

But strangely, no matter what he said to himself, he couldn’t quite shake the odd feeling. 

 

Shrugging, he sipped the cold water, leaning on the kitchen’s wall. The Dursleys were out for the afternoon, leaving him only with his usual impossible list of chores. As much as he dreaded the summers in this house, when he was all alone, things became quite bearable. Sometimes, he even found time to practice magic—without a wand of course. He  practiced the wrist movements holding a spoon, or wrote formulas by heart on old papers before throwing them in the trash. 

 

More than once, the trash had exploded, turned into interesting colors or even started walking because of the potency of some formulas. Harry was lucky that the woman living in front of the Dursleys was a squib.  She, at least, would help him hide any trace of practiced magic—the ministry may not care that much about it, but the Dursleys were another story altogether. 

 

And this strange feeling… It had happened before. Since the past week, really,  in waves. Like something was about to happen, something important. He couldn’t quite tell yet if it was good or bad, but it was... massive.

 

Harry returned to his work. He really didn’t fancy  the punishment he’d receive if he hadn’t finished it in time.

 

But once outside, the strange feeling  returned. As much as he didn’t think himself paranoid, Harry couldn’t help the rapid beating of his heart  or the cool sweat on his brows. All his senses were on alert. 

 

Dumbledore had warned him that, as his old enemy had gotten out of prison, he might try to attack Harry. Being the headmaster’s protégé had its perks, but Harry had to assume the dangers too. That was why he had to stay with his muggle relatives. A muggle-hater like Grindelwald surely wouldn’t think to look for him here, and he would be out of the way if the Dark Wizard decided to attack Albus himself. 

 

However, along the years, Harry started to understand that the headmaster’s plans were always right until they went wrong, and the secrecy of his location didn’t stop him from being on edge.

 

He squinted his eyes to check  in the trees. Maybe something was behind the bushes. There was definitely something, or someone, he couldn’t see. Everything was too silent, too still, even for Privet Drive. 

 

Slowly, Harry crouched, just like he had done to take care of the flowers, and discreetly took his wand out of  its holster. 

 

_ There.  _

 

He shot up his head. 

 

There was someone on the road. Harry couldn’t quite see who it was. A silhouette… The sun was too bright for him to really look. It was a man, standing silently, immobile in the middle of the road. He was wearing a long coak; it could be of any color, but it certainly was dark and far too long. He had dark hair too, above his shoulders, that was for sure, but…

 

A car passed in the street, making Harry jump. When he looked at the road again, the silhouette was gone. 

 

Shaking, Harry ran back into the house, leaving his tools on the ground. 

 

He ran  up the stairs and opened the door to his room. Fortunately, the Dursleys were not there. He opened his drawer and pulled out a  piece of paper—he had managed to steal some when the Durleys had confiscated most of his school materials. He grabbed a pen and scribbled a word. He hung it off Hedwig's leg. The poor bird was looking at him anxiously. 

 

“It’s ok, girl. Just take it to Dumbledore quickly, please?”

 

The owl hooted, shook her feathers and flew out of the window. 

 

Harry sighed.

 

He sat on his bed, shivering. He couldn’t go back outside, not in this state. He weakly rose from his bed to check that the tools weren’t in full view, closed the window and sat back. With a bit of luck Petunia would come home before Vernon, she was always less...  violent, in her behaviour. 

 

He decided to lay down, and fell into a dreamless sleep. 

 

When he opened his eyes, it was dark. 

 

The faded, yellow light of the lamp-post dimly illuminated the contours of the few pieces of furniture in the room; but the light from the bluish moon dominated. A cool breeze passed through the open window, and the air smelled of a summer night; the night when one continued to live. A tray with a bowl of soup had been slid  through the hatch that the Dursleys had put in the door. It did not smoke; it must have been cold.

 

Insects were stifling outside; sometimes a dog could be heard barking far away. The  sound of the television could barely be heard in his room. Just enough for Harry to catch a few muffled words.

 

_ A boy… tragic murder… _

 

Harry got up and went to get his soup. Better cold than nothing at all, and then again, with this heat he was not going to complain a lot. The night had brought down the damp and heavy heat which weighed on the city during the day, laden with pollution and  affecting everyone's nerves; but there was still something electrifying in the air.

 

He sat down on the floor. Getting back on the bed would have made him feel like going back to sleep. He was surprised to have had the right to some soup—a half bowl—when he had not finished his chores.

 

_ The children’s testimony... cannot be trustworthy… red eyes… _

 

Harry listened. The few words he heard sounded bad in his head, as if he already knew what it was about... He was not really sure he wanted to know, but his curiosity had always been one of his greatest qualities, and one of his greatest faults. Anyway, he could not get out of his room, it was locked as soon as the meal was over.

 

Harry put his hand on the door. The panel moved. 

 

_ It wasn’t locked. _

 

Harry gently pushed the door. He put his bowl back on the tray and tiptoed  down the corridor. Six years of running around Hogwarts corridors at night under Snape’s nose had made him very, very good at it. Well, it was surely much more thanks to the Dursley’s behaviour, but Harry didn’t like to think about that. Snape was much more easy to blame than his own family. It hurt a bit less, somehow. Sounded more like a game, more like an act of defiance against authority than a survival skill. 

 

He walked down the stairs. Vernon and Petunia were probably in the living room, watching the late news while Dudley was out with his friends. They never listened to that type of thing while he was at home—afraid to taint his precious ears. Harry didn’t dare to tell them that Dudley had seen and heard worse things in the real world, and at his friend’s houses. 

 

A light had been lit behind the television, but it was not enough to illuminate the entire living room. In the dark, the blue light on the screen flickered as the images changed. Harry sat  on the last step of the stairs. From where he was, he could only see half of the screen, but he did not dare to go further, certainly not when he had left his tools out a little earlier.

 

_ The police  are still looking for other suspects and witnesses, but no one seems to have any idea of what happened. The children will be placed in a foster home with one of the policemen during the investigation—the police department fears that the murderer would indeed come back to kill the last witnesses… _

 

A facial composition of an impossibly handsome young man appeared on the screen. Later, he wouldn’t be able to actually describe the man. All of his mind had frozen when  those red, red eyes stared at him and bore into his  _ soul _ . 

 

Harry felt called, attracted, breathed. His whole world seemed reduced to these impossible red eyes, as if his very being recognised something in them, something he should have known a long time ago, something in him, _ on him _ . Something looking at the back of his neck and boring holes in his chest to escape-

 

The image changed to the  presenter, passing to other news. 

 

Harry bolted to his room. 


	3. Sweat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy! I am publishing this chapter quite quickly as it was already written; thank you to all my betas!  
> I also want to thank you all for the comments on the previous chapter - I'll answer to them, I promise, I just didn't have the time until now. I am very please with the reactions to this story! <3
> 
> Warning: strange smut, horror elements

**III-**

  
  


Harry tossed and turned in his bed for  many, many hours. He didn’t know why this… face was disturbing him so much—he didn’t even know who it was, or what that person had done! But he could still feel something, as if those eyes had burned something inside him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

 

His thoughts  spun inside his head, giving him a headache.

_ Tic _

 

He turned towards the wall to shield himself from the light coming from the outside. He didn’t like to close the shutters. The dark reminded him too much of the cupboard. 

 

_ Tic _

 

He closed his eyes, determined to ignore the noise of the branch against his window. 

 

_ Tic _

 

But his window was  _ open.  _ _ His window opened on the inside. _

 

_ Tic _

 

Harry’s breath quickened, but he couldn’t open his eyes. Something,  _ something _ , was scaring him, something behind his back, where he couldn’t see, but he was feeling the shadow-

 

_ Tic _

 

He couldn’t move, his limbs were stuck, sweating on the mattress. He didn’t dare swallow his own spit. He tried to even his breathing out. He couldn’t.  _ He had no control. _

 

_ Tic _

 

_ Tic _

 

**_Tic._ **

 

He was there, crouching on the parapet. His red eyes fixed on Harry, unblinking, wide open, his irises contrasting the dangerous white entirely surrounding them, his smile fake, mean, tense as if someone had put wax on it, his nail, long and sharp on his unnaturally bony finger, tapping the window glass in  rhythm

 

_ Tic _

_ Tic _

_ Tic _

 

He was looking at Harry—who was helpless, so helpless, unmoving, asleep, dead—with unspeakable hunger. 

 

_ Tic _

 

He didn’t move, but Harry knew, he knew that the moment he passed the window, the moment he entered—

 

Harry woke up with a start. He turned around. 

 

The window was open, and no one was there.

 

\---

 

Harry didn’t have more nightmares after that night. He received Dumbledore’s answer—Harry’s feeling was probably due to stress, but his old mentor would keep an eye out for him. A very empty answer, if you asked Harry, but he would have to do with that. 

 

He had strange dreams, yes. Dreams where he walked in empty streets at night, looking for something important without finding it. Dreams where he watched people sleep, wanting to do the same,  but unable to really close his eyes. Dreams he didn’t remember, but which left him a strange, atrocious aftertaste of sulfur. 

 

To say the truth, Harry was bored. he wasn’t used to being cut off from the magical world for so long.  In previous years, he had been able to go to his friends’ houses, or even his godfather’s…

 

But Sirius had been killed for being too close to him, and no one was getting him out of here anymore. 

 

There was no use to make a fuss about it. Not when the worst Dark Lord of all times, Grindelwald, was out of his prison. Harry understood his place very well. 

 

So he wandered in the streets, making sure that he was always  within ear-shot of Miss Figg. She would alert Dumbledore if something happened to him. He felt like a child again, but better a child than dead. 

 

Absentmindedly, Harry sat on one of the swing in the playground. The movement was creating a welcome cold breeze. 

 

Harry felt slightly better. 

 

He felt relief. Excitement. Something foreign, something alien, but good, so, so very  _ Good _ . 

 

“Hello.”

 

Harry planted his feet in the ground and stopped at once.

 

There was a boy—no, a man—in front of him. A bit older than himself—probably in his twenties,  but it was hard to guess. 

 

Handsome.

 

No,  that wasn’t the right word. The man had something ethereal about him— as if the ones like him couldn’t really exist. He had high cheekbones and a strong, but delicately chiseled jaw, tickled by the end of a few soft dark curls. His hair was perfectly combed in a way Harry had never managed to make his. 

 

His eyes were in some dark shade of brown, almost black, slightly dim, as if even looking at Harry, the man was contemplating something deep in a faraway place. It gave him a soft aura, something dreamy, which contrasted with the straightness of his posture. 

 

No, Harry was sure of it. 

 

Nobody’s face was  _ that _ symmetrical. 

 

The man arched an eyebrow. Harry blushed, being caught staring. But this face—he remembered it from somewhere…

 

“Ca-can I help you?”

 

The man smiled as if Harry had just made a particularly exquisit joke. “Yes, I believe you can,” he said softly, extending his hand. “My name is Tom.”

 

Harry smiled politely and took his hand. 

 

_ Cold. _

 

Tom’s hand was bigger than Harry’s, with long, elegant fingers, smooth skin—almost as if he had never used his hands for anything before—his grip was slightly too strong, slightly too insistent for a formal handshake, and his skin was  _ cold _ . It was contrasting so sharply with the summer heat that Harry almost jumped out of his skin. 

 

Harry’s heart was beating too hard, too quickly in his chest. He had to withdraw his hand, but when he  lifted his eyes, he got caught in Tom’s gaze. It was more than warm, it was burning, and Harry felt like he was falling; he could almost hear the screams…

 

“Harry!”

 

Harry jumped and withdrew his hand the rest of the way. Miss Figg was trotting towards him, her cardigan tightly wrapped around her despite the heat. 

 

“Hello Miss Figg!” he  replied, waving his hand. 

 

The old lady rushed towards him, waving her finger. “Now, now, Harry, you know you shouldn’t be out there all alone these days,”  she chastised. “ And who is your new friend?”

 

“Hello, Madam,” Tom said, smiling politely. “I’m Tom, the new neighbor. I was going to ask this young man for advice  about the neighbourhood.”

 

“What a charming young man!” said Miss Fidd, clasping her hand in praise, “don’t you worry dear, you’ll do great here. It’s quiet and tranquil, perfect for a simple life.”

 

Tom smiled, his eyes lightning up slightly. “I think I’ll like it there, then.”

 

“Where do you live exactly?”

 

“At number 23.”

 

“Oh? I didn’t know the old Miss Gabriel had moved away!” Exclaimed Miss, Figg, wording Harry’s thought. It was really rare for anything to happen around without being known by everyone—people like Petunia made sure of that. 

 

“Yes, it was quite sudden.” admitted the young man, clasping his hands behind his back. It made him look like a perfect scholar, and underlined the straightness of his back, the curve of his shoulders. “The poor woman sold her house very quick. She was adamant that her house was haunted, and insisted  she sell it to me for almost nothing!”

 

“That is quite peculiar indeed… Ghosts…”

 

“There, there, Ma’am, you’re not going to believe in a ghost story! Next thing pigs will fly and  the dead walk around!” Tom laughed lightly.

 

Harry smiled. “I heard this kind of things happen to the elderly, especially when they’re alone.”

 

“Yes, yes, Poor Miss Gabriel wasn’t the same since her husband passed away…” Miss Figg clapped her hands to dissipate the grim atmosphere. “Well, Tom, we’ll give you a tour of the neighbourhood, so you can see what you’re  getting yourself into.”

 

She lead them around, babbling—or, more gossiping—about the differents families. Tom and Harry stayed a few feet behind, more or less ignoring the old woman, throwing each other a glance from time to time. 

 

“Are you a wizard?” whispered the newcomer. 

 

Harry startled, his hand immediately on his wand. Tom raised his hand, eyes wide. “No, no, I’m sorry. I’m a wizard too!”

 

Harry's muscles relaxed and his wand disappeared into his pocket. “I apologize,” he said, “It’s just that…”

 

“I know. With Grindelwald at large the Statute is slowly crumbling. You had good reflexes, mind you.”

 

“How… how did you know?” Harry asked, a bit shakily. 

 

“The handshake. You have wand callouses, quite easy to recognise when you know what to look for.”

 

Tom looked quite smug of his knowledge—or maybe of having managed to startle Harry in such a way, but the boy couldn’t resent him for it. Such  knowledge could save a life, these days. 

 

“Thank you. I’ll keep  that in mind in the future.”

 

Tom looked at him for a long time, his gaze heavy, his mouth stretched in a thin smile. 

 

“See that you do,”  he whispered. 

 

\----

 

The next few days were quite uneventful. Harry saw Tom from afar, even if it appeared that the man was never really far from him. He was probably visiting the neighbourhood;  getting some fresh air. Living in the haunted house of an old lady surely wasn’t an easy thing. 

 

The man  would wave to him, and Harry had a very hard time concealing his blush. Nobody should be that graceful while waving, nor wear a white shirt that well. Certainly not while so casually laying in the grass under the old trees like some sort of resting bloody angel. 

 

“I’ve met the new neighbour,” said Petunia, diligently serving her husband the food Harry had cooked. “He seemed like a proper young man. There’s not enough of them, these days.”

 

She looked pointedly at Harry, who was doing his best not to laugh. She probably took his expression as shame,  as she looked quite content with herself. Harry shook his head. Aunt Petunia would never change, to her loss. He was kind of relieved that none of the Dursleys had any curiosity towards the wizarding world; they would not be in danger even in the midst of a wizarding battle. They were the kind of people to see green lights flashing around and think “It must be some weird gas.” 

 

Harry ate in silence, musing about his situation. Tom was a wizard, yes, but there were all kinds of wizards. Maybe he should send another letter to Albus, just to make sure that everything was alright with the man. If anyone, his old mentor would know. 

 

Once all his chores were over, sweating and tired, Harry went to take a quick shower (he didn’t have the right to more than five minutes per day), and go to bed. It was still too hot to sleep, and even the mattress seemed uncomfortable. 

 

Harry let the water of the shower cool him, hoping that it would be enough to allow him to sleep that night. He really didn’t have the strength to miss his sleep knowing that he had to do the garden once again tomorrow. 

 

Quickly enough, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep. 

 

\---

 

The room was dark. Dark and silent, but of this stillness, this lightness of summer’s night.

 

No, not silent. 

 

Harry walked slowly, without knowing why. His steps didn’t make a sound. Water was falling. Was it rain? No, there wasn’t any humidity in the air, and the noise was too close, too regular. 

 

He was in front of a door. 

 

The noise was louder now, obviously coming from behind the panel. Harry pushed it gently. 

 

He was in a bathroom. The room was clean, tiled in white. Two fluffy towels had been placed on the sink, and steam was escaping from behind the opaque shower curtain. 

 

A shadow moved behind the curtain, catching Harry's eye. There was someone behind it. The arms rose to come to rest on the dark form of the head, and the figure stood in profile. Harry could observe the neck, long and thin, the flat shape of the torso, slightly curved where the hips appeared, and the round curve of the buttocks. Then came the legs, long and chiseled, one slightly bent forward as if the person had put his foot on the tip.

 

The movements of the silhouette behind the curtain, hidden and yet revealed, were incredibly sensual. Harry could not take his eyes off despite the illicit feeling. He stepped forward silently as his arms slowly passed over the silhouette's chest. She ? turned to the wall; back to Harry, and the boy opened the curtain.

 

His mouth hung open. 

 

It was a man, obviously, but Harry could have know that from the shadow. The man’s back was facing him, the muscles rolling under the pale and perfect skin. The shoulderblades marked themselves even more as two strong arms moved to put soap on the man’s shoulders. The bubbles caressed the point of the damp curls stuck against the neck before sliding  down the line of his spine, to the small of the man’s back. 

 

Harry’s breath hitched as the water flowing against the skin continued its way in the crack of the man’s arse, wich could have been taken from an antique statue for all Harry knew. But this, this man was definitely alive, breathing deeply, making his ribs appear at his sides and the drops of water run against them before disappearing around the _ front _ . 

 

The man put one of his hands on the shower wall, flexing the muscles of his back. 

 

The steam was damping Harry’s skin—or  maybe he was sweating, because he had never been burning like  this before. Oh, how he wished to be the water caressing the man’s back, falling against his legs, lapping at the base of his neck, drawing the contours of the strong veins  in his forearms! He could feel the need on his lips as his tongue darted out past against them, and even the taste of his own skin seemed to arouse him even further. 

 

But it wasn’t enough. 

 

His heart was beating  its way out of his chest. He rose his hand towards the pale skin. He just wanted to brush against it… His fingers slightly trembling, he let his hand ghost above the skin,  first on the neck, between the shoulderblades, against the curve of the back… He could feel the heat of the body, the pulsating life in the veins, the movement of the breathing...

 

Some droplets stagnated on a parcel of skin just out of reach of the flowing water, where the steam was left to cover the shivering side. He put his fingers on the warm, wet skin and let them slide  to the hip. His fingers left a trace on the dew that had rested on the perfect—so  _ soft _ —skin. 

 

Harry watched, hypnotized, as his fingers left a mark on the unblemished skin, as their journey stayed fixed on the water that was covering it. To feel the warmth— _ to feel _ —

 

Harry startled as the whole body stopped moving. He  moved his eyes from the expanse of skin, his fingers still touching it, and met a dark, black eye-

 

_ Tom _

 

-watching him, burning holes in him, the man’s head turned to the right. Harry’s breath caught in his throat and he opened his mouth, retracting his hand—

 

Harry woke with a start, hard and aching. He disentangled himself from his sweat-soaked blanket and pushed his hair against his forehead with a wave of his hand. His birthmark—a small flash on his forehead—heated terribly. He didn’t put any attention to it as his mind went elsewhere. He had never been so hard in his life. 

 

Harry put his hand on his member, debating with his conscience. He couldn’t debase Tom in such a way, and he didn’t even know the man! How was he even attracted to a  _ man?  _

 

Well, he obviously was. His practical side sprung into life, saying there was no point denying it. It was ok, no problem with that. But he couldn’t… do it thinking about someone  _ real _ !

 

A cold shower was in order…

 

Letting go of his dilemma, he gave up to his body. He bit his lips to muffle any eventual moan. He let his finger trail from the base to the tip, shivering at the soft caress... and stopped immediately. 

 

Harry brought his hand to eye-level. His fingers, the two fingers with which he had touched… His fingers were wet. 

 

_ Was it real? _

 

The simple idea that it had been, that he had touched… that he had seen… that he had done something so forbidden…

 

Without even touching himself further, Harry came.


	4. Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy!  
> Thanks to all the nice comments, and the kudos on this fic! I'm so, so glad that the idea had such a good impact. I am writing the next chapter, but it might be published in some time -unfortunately. I'll try to publish it as soon as I can!
> 
> Thank you to my beta :)
> 
> Warning: mild dub-con, violence, murder

**IV-**

 

Harry watched the laundry spin in the washing machine. It was kind of lulling. He had to wait for the family laundry to be washed before putting his own in it. Freak’s clothes couldn’t go with normal people’s. 

 

These things used to hurt him, as a child. Now, he smiled at how ridiculous this all was. It was bittersweet, of course, but at least he had outgrown a big part of the guilt the Dursley had put on his shoulders for simply  _ living _ . 

 

Harry put his head in his hands and sighed. He didn’t dare go out of the house, fearing  he’d meet Tom. He wasn’t sure he could face the man right now. 

 

Stupid teenage hormones. 

 

He sighed again. Dumbledore’s answer was what he had expected: the man didn’t know of any of Grindelwald’s men corresponding to Tom’s description, but polyjuice was always a possibility, and an unregistered wizard was always a potential danger. All in all, he received no information, but the order to stay  _ careful _ . 

 

Really, he could have swear that sometimes the old man channeled Moody. 

 

But it mostly meant that Harry was all on his own. 

 

The boy sighed once more as  he took the laundry out of the machine. His movements were mechanical. He tried not to let his mind wander to where it had last night, but the task proved impossible. 

 

Was Tom really like that under his clothes? It was a real possibility. He held himself in a way that suggested repressed strength. He wasn’t too broad, nor too muscular, but he had a grace that could only come from a healthy body. 

 

What was he even thinking? It wasn’t his business, what Tom looked like under his clothes!

 

Harry mentally slapped himself and went back to his chores. 

 

Someone tapped at the window. Harry went to open it and greeted Miss Figg with a relieved smile. He grinned when she held up the Daily Prophet. 

 

Like every Wednesday, Petunia was gone until the dinner; like every Wednesday, Miss Figg came at the house to take her tea. Sometimes, Harry almost wished that his aunt knew, if only to see the look on her face. 

 

Harry made himself at home in Vernon’s armchair while the tea infused in the teapot Petunia reserved for her guests. 

 

“Any news, Miss Figg?” he asked lightly. 

 

“Oh nothing much for me, I’m afraid. I’m an old woman—old women tend to have quite a dull life.” 

 

“Oh, but you’re not  _ that _ old, Miss Figg!” he grinned. 

 

She waved her hand at his teasing tone. “I’m afraid the news from home isn’t good, my dear boy.” The words wiped the grin off of Harry’s face. If Miss Figg had taken it upon herself to talk about it, it surely was worrisome.

 

“Grindelwald is more and more active these days. He’s gaining followers, I’m afraid,” she whispered, as if fearing to be overheard—which wasn’t such a ridiculous fear, all in all.

 

“Professor Dumbledore didn’t seem overly concerned by the situation, considering everything…”

 

“I know Albus is trying to avoid panic by telling everyone that everything is under control, but I wasn’t born yesterday, boy.” She said, tapping the tip of her finger against her temple. “I can see what is happening. I was there the last time—barely a teenager, yes, but there nonetheless.”

 

Harry frowned. Miss Figg was an old woman, and a squib, but he knew more than most how sharp her mind was. I wouldn’t be the first time that Albus had tried to shove things under the carpet to avoid spilling more blood than was necessary. “What do you think, then?”

 

She sighed, pushing a lock of grey hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure, child. But keep your  wand with you at all times. Now that Albus has publicly taken you as his apprentice, you’re one of the main targets—if your own capacities hadn’t made you one before.”

 

He nodded absently, serving the tea into their cups. “Just promise me to be prudent, child,” she said softly. He look up and saw that her face was invaded by worry. He nodded slowly and gave her her cup. 

 

“I’ve been training for battle, and keep my wand with me at all time. And if something happens to me, one of your dear “ _ cats _ ” will surely run to save me.”

 

The comment managed to make her crack a smile. Harry opened the newspaper. He had never understood how an entire magical country only relied on two newspapers—one official,  _ and the Quibbler _ —for the news. The mere presence of Skeeter in the redaction of the Prophet cut down any hopes for reliable information. 

 

Indeed, the paper reported a high number of “disappearances,” “not yet linked by the Aurors to any terrorist or illicit activities ,” along with a alarmingly high number of werewolf hunts, resulting in the Aurors slaughtering entire clans of them. 

 

“Do we have news from Remus?” Harry asked.

 

“Yes, yes, don’t worry, child. Dumbledore placed him in a safe place along with a few others of his kind. The Order is trying to save the ones they can, but we cannot fight on two fronts.”

 

Harry nodded, slightly nauseous.  _ Acceptable casualties _ , Albus had said one day, looking more defeated than Harry had ever seen him. He sipped his tea, wondering where his aging mentor was placing the line between what was and what wasn’t acceptable. 

 

Otherwise, the paper was filled with the usual ministry gravel, and Harry bored of it quite quickly. But he couldn’t refuse himself the small reprieve of seeing what was happening in his world. He felt less alone—less disconnected—like that. 

 

It felt less like he was watching the war from the sidelines. 

 

\---

 

Dudley was home. 

 

Of course he had to come home now. Aunt Petunia squiked in joy at the return of her Dudders, and Vernon had even gotten off of his couch to salute his dear son. Harry could tell because he could hear the man’s footsteps from his room. 

 

Really, it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen through the floor already. 

 

Harry had to close his eyes in pain, already wishing he was out of the place. Vernon and Petunia tended to ignore him with the exception of his chores, but Dudley would always seeking him out. 

 

Harry rolled his eyes at the prospect. 

 

For now, he would not have to suffer that. The sound of Dudley's latest video game spread through the house aggressively. It was the moment he’d been waiting for. Harry got up, grabbed his wand and walked out of his room as quietly as possible. He managed to get past Dudley's without being noticed. Petunia glanced at him as he opened the front door, but did nothing to hold him back. Fortunately.

 

Once outside, the wind caressed his cheeks and took away some of the unbearable heat that seemed to want to suffocate the whole country.

 

He took a deep breath. 

 

He hadn’t noticed how beautiful the sky was. It was one of those late summer days, when the darks clouds gathered in the sky, pierced by the golden rays of the sun; when the air was still dry and hot and forthcoming of the rain. It was superb; the contrast between the dark grey and blue of the clouds, and the orange, copper tints when the light would pass through them. 

 

And the grass! How had he not noticed that it was so green? Soft?  _ Alive _ ? 

 

When had he forgotten the noise of the birds in the trees, the feeling of thunder in the air, the smell of the warm bitume?

 

Harry startled. 

 

When had he started to notice these things?

 

Feeling like he was missing something important and with a dirty taste in his mouth, Harry went to the park he had met Tom in for the first time. 

 

It was a nice refuge, really. Far enough not to be directly in Dudley’s gang’s territory, but close enough for him to be able to go running back, in case of trouble. It was open, with large, buildingless areas that was a far as it could be from the claustrophobic feeling of his cupboard. 

 

And it had swings. Swings were good. 

 

Swings gave him a good excuse to stare blankly at the void and let his mind wander, something he could only do during his classes. Not that he would ever tell that to his dear mentor. Dumbledore was nice, but, sometimes, he just talked  _ too much _ . 

 

Especially about socks. 

 

Harry sat on one of the swings. He knew he looked desperate, and probably a little ridiculous, a sixteen year old in a park alone. But there was no one around to judge him.

 

He felt strangely excited. As if he knew something was going to happen—something he had been waiting for for a long time. But he did not know what. He really did not see what could create such feelings in him at Privet Drive.

 

“Hello.”

 

Harry startled. 

 

“Oh, sorry!” said Tom with a smirk that said that he really wasn’t sorry at all. “It seems that we can’t meet without me making you jump.”

 

Tom was standing next to the swing, looking as perfect as ever. He was wearing simple, black muggle clothes. He was standing in the sun, not even breaking a sweat, looking at Harry intensely. If possible, his skin looked even paler, as if the man simply couldn’t tan. 

 

Tom was really out of place in this summer day. It stuck in Harry’s throat, this impression. Like something that shouldn’t be here. 

 

_ Like him in Tom’s shower _ . 

 

He lowered his eyes, trying not to blush. He just hoped that Tom wasn’t a skilled legilimens. 

 

If he had looked, he would have seen Tom’s smile disappear to something colder; dangerous. 

 

“So… do you attend Hogwarts?”

 

Since their first meeting, they had consciously avoided any magical-related type of discussion. Harry didn’t want to remind Tom of the war, to say something that could be hurtful by accident. But the question seemed genuine enough.

 

“Yes. I’m going to enter my seventh year in September.” he said, barely containing his excitement. He really wanted to go home, to see his friends, his mentor, even Slughorn. Anything was better than the Dursleys after all. 

 

“Slytherin?” Tom asked.

 

“Gryffindor.”

 

“Ah.” Tom’s face didn’t move an inch, but Harry could almost feel the disappointment in waves. He chose to ignore it - there hadn’t been a lot of house-fanatics for at least fifty years after all—he didn’t see how his house could be a disappointment for anyone. 

 

Tom took a breath, soundingas if talking was costing him. There was something restrained about him. “I was going for my walk. Would you care to walk with me?” he said softly. 

 

Harry nodded, not really trusting his voice to not carry his present embarrassment. It wasn’t the first time he had had a wet dream about someone,but all of them had been carefully locked inside the back of his mind. With Tom, he had the distinct sensation that the man knew. 

 

Well, he must know what he looked like after all. 

 

The walk on the sideway, the sun and Tom’s gaze burning Harry’s neck.

 

“So, Tom, how do you find your life in your new home?” Harry asked.

 

“Quite tranquil. Well, except that I think I should call an exorcist; one might never know when the old ladies are right,”Tom answered lightly, grinning down at Harry. His smile was contagious, and Harry felt his own mouth twitch. 

 

“So tell me Harry, why does a young man like you have to pass his holidays with  _ muggles _ ? Surely you have friends, or even a pretty girl waiting for you somewhere…”

 

Harry blushed again. 

 

At this rate he was going to stay red forever. 

 

“No, no girl… And I’m here because of the war. It isn’t safe to stay too long on the other side of the barrier.”

 

“It isn’t safe anywhere.”

 

Harry looked up. Tom was deep in thought, his face somber. Harry had never seen him so serious. Of course, Tom smiled rarely, as far as he knew. He was more of a mysterious man than a cheerful one, but he always had this air of… easiness. A casual assurance, as if nothing in the world could touch him. 

 

Harry put his hand on Tom’s arm to offer comfort. 

 

Warm. 

 

It was so warm, and he could feel the muscles under the sleeve. The forms he had seen moving. The skin he had seen wet and naked-

 

Harry found his back hitting a wall. They were in a small alley—when had they gotten here?

 

Tom was close, so close they were almost touching. Harry’s hand was still on his arm. It was stuck there, melted onto Tom, Harry was sure of it. Tom’s eyes were focused on him, unmoving. 

 

From this close Harry could see the perfect shape of his eyebrows, the shivering of his lips, the darkness of his irises. The small locks of wavy hair falling in front of his face, moving with his low, trembling breath. The blush on his cheeks. 

 

The little signs he was human. 

 

Tom’s hand ghosted over Harry’s cheek, and his face got so close they were almost touching. He was everywhere, all around him. 

 

Harry’s heart was beating out of his chest, trying to get closer to Tom, trying to  _ merge _ , but he was petrified. His arms laid limp on each side of his body. 

 

His lips parted. 

 

They were breathing the same air. Not touching, not kissing, warm skin ghosting over warm skin as if it was enough. Harry could feel Tom’s air in his lungs, over his face, on his skin, inside him. He could feel Tom’s chest getting ever closer at each deep, deep breath, he could see the vein on his forehead as his skin coloured, as his being  _ came alive _ . And it was beautiful, so beautiful, so perfect. He was being pulled, he wanted more, he wanted to touch, but yet…

 

… yet he couldn’t because it would be destroying the perfection, cutting the link, cutting the air that was passing between the two of them. It was raw, hot, it was something he couldn’t put words on, he couldn't put thought on. 

 

His magic was reaching, caressing the skin—

 

But why was he now feeling so cold? 

 

It was harder to breathe. The air was fire, burning its way down his throat—

 

“Hey, Poof!”

 

Tom backed off immediately. Harry, suddenly released from his haze, had to grip the wall not to fall. His knees were weak, his  _ entire being _ was weak. He was far too caught up in trying to decipher what had just happened to notice the insult. 

 

“What did you just say?” whispered Tom, moving slowly forward. 

 

“Big D! Big D, come here! Look, Harry’s bent!” 

 

Dudley’s nickname woke Harry up to reality. No matter his magic talents, in the muggle world, Dudley had the upper hand. And said hand tended to end up on Harry’s face these days. 

 

He had to run. He had to get away from Dudley, from Piers, from  _ Tom. _

 

Without even thinking on the lack of gryffindorishness, Harry pulled himself back onto his feet and ran. What had just happened?  _ What the hell had just happened?  _

 

A thousand questions were turning in his mind at the same speed as his feet were moving on the ground. He ran into the Dursley’s house and up to his room, ignoring Petunia’s shouts and closing the door. He let himself slide down against it.

 

He was shivering, sweating. His heart was beating far too fast, his breath was rough and uneven. He felt cold and hot all at the same time, and still unbelievingly aroused and scared beyond words. 

 

He closed his eyes. 

 

\---

 

Harry was awakened by an explosion. His whole room lit up in red before the darkness came back. Eyes wide open, he jumped out of bed and grabbed his emergency bag, which he had hidden underneath it.

 

His hands were trembling. He got up to check on the street: three black figures were coming towards the house. Slowly, his hand pressed on his mouth, he backed away from the window, hoping that the men hadn’t seen him. 

 

He ran to his door.

 

It was locked. 

 

Harry pulled the door, knocked on it, there was nothing to do. It was locked. Panic made him tremble, and he felt tears come to his eyes. He continued to hit the panel to hurt his hands, ignoring the pain, hoping that one of the Dursleys would hear him.

 

Trapped.  _ Trapped... _

 

“Dudley! Petunia!” he screamed, and screamed all of their names, again and again, trying to get their attention. He didn’t want to stay here, he didn’t want to be entombed... But no, they must be ignoring him because there was no way they hadn’t heard him at this point. He laughed, almost painfully; their own stupidity would be the death of them all. 

 

Thinking quickly, Harry backtracked from the door. A look through the window confirmed him that the men were slowly breaking through the wards. He had to get out of here without being seen, had to manage to hide until help came…

 

He couldn’t send out a Patronus. The light would be seen by everyone in a night as dark as this one. The lampposts were destroyed by Grindelwald’s men one by one—almost any spell would be a dead giveaway. But he couldn’t let the Dursleys here alone. As muggles, they would be prime targets to the dark wizards. 

 

Harry clenched his teeth, a painfully dangerous plan forming in his head. 

 

Harry waited patiently for the wizards to walk down the aisle. His house was clearly the target. Taking care not to be seen, with slow and decided movements, he opened the window.

 

He saw the bush a little lower—just below his window. His heart was pounding at the mere thought of jumping, but it was better than being trapped in the little room. He took a deep breath, called for all his Gryffindor courage, and before his thoughts had the time to dissuade him, he threw himself out the window.

 

His mind shut down during the fall. He didn’t even have the time to be scared before he touched the leaves. The little branches he had pruned himself earlier in the week scratched his back and arms, but he was pleased to get out of it without any real injury. He rolled behind the bush, squatting on the ground without any grace, and glanced over the leaves.

 

The men were at the door. Harry heard an Alohomora whispered, and looked around him frantically for a weapon of any kind. 

 

There. A big branch—he had cut it himself from one of the trees that bordered the Dursleys' garden.

 

He grabbed the branch and weighed it. He knew it was harder to assault someone bigger than he was, but he hoped to put at least two of his opponents on the ground thanks to the element of surprise.

 

A knife would have been better.

 

Deciding to make do, Harry crouched and tip-toed out of the bushes. The men had entered the house, but were still on the first floor—far from the sleeping Dursleys.

 

Harry slipped behind the first assailant. Hell, he was at least two heads taller than him... Hoping with all his strength that the noise would not attract the others—and that they were far enough to give him time to hide evidence—he raised his arm and hit the man with the branch. The wood hit the man’s skull with a soft  _ thud _ , and the man fell onto the ground in a ridiculous position. 

 

Harry noted to himself to wear helmets in the future. 

 

He heard a shift. 

 

One of the other men was standing in the corridor, staring directly at him. 

 

_ Fuck. _

 

Harry barely ducked as a white ray passed above his head. He did not have time to get up again before a pain in his heart shook his back. He vaguely heard footsteps on the first floor.The Dursleys were finally waking up. 

 

He laughed bitterly. It had taken a real magic battle to push the Dursleys to take into account noises emitted at an abnormal hour.

 

He was about to dash for the stairs—to scream to the Dursleys  _ not to get out yet _ when a metallic  _ thud _ stopped him. 

 

The Dark wizard fell to his knees slowly, revealing Miss Figg standing behind him. She was standing a bit shakily, a pan raised above her head. If Harry wasn’t shocked and trying to save his skin, he would have laughed. Who knew Miss Figg could be an efficient, if slightly chaotic, dark wizard fighter?

 

Harry tried to get up on his feet gracefully—and failed. Sometimes, he really didn’t even know why he  _ tried _ . 

 

His musing was cut off as he heard heavy footsteps followed by shouts upstairs. Before he had the time to react, he heard screams, and colors flashed on the walls. 

 

He looked at Miss Figg. She was watching him with wide eyes, almost begging for him to to climb the stairs. 

 

He couldn’t let them die like that…

 

Harry jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs, not even bothering to conceal his arrival.

 

He barely ducked the spell that was thrown his way by throwing himself on the floor. He raised his eyes—oh god, Dudley was lying on the floor, all bloodied—before a stunner hit him from the side. Harry fell against the wall, desperately trying to breathe, to regain his senses, to do anything. 

 

But he was stuck here, unable to speak, as the Dark Wizard got closer to him. He was dressed in red fighting robes, and wore a piece of cloth around the lower part of his face—both to not be recognized and as a mild protection against volatile potions. His eyes shone darkly in the dim light of the corridor, as if someone had lightened a lantern behind him. 


End file.
